


The Cured Engine

by A_V_I_S_lives



Category: The Railway Series - W. Awdry, Thomas the Tank Engine - All Media Types
Genre: 125 is also a canon character but i'm not telling, Gen, backstory ahoy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26010283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_V_I_S_lives/pseuds/A_V_I_S_lives
Summary: A mainland engine gets acquainted with a passenger who regularly takes his night train. It turns out the man is in charge of the engines on a strange, struggling little railway—one that no proper express engine in his right senses would ever want to work. Of course, our hero is infamous on his own railway for *not* being a proper, sensible engine at all…
Comments: 15
Kudos: 13





	1. The Island

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my more-than-beta-reader F., wise, enthusiastic, and relentless. My own Mr. Aubrey. ♥ 
> 
> We actually began our friendship and creative shenanigans as Victorian literature nerds. So this fic is basically “what would happen if L.M. Montgomery and Louisa May Alcott were brought back from the dead, fused into a single writer, and then given charge of the Railway Series.” 
> 
> *shrug* You’ve been warned.

**I — The Island**

“We’ll be giving a lift to one of the passengers after we get to Barrow,” said the driver, by the light of his engine's headlamp, as they waited at the gas-dim station for their passengers to board. "Bit of a special guest.”

“Indeed, sir? Where to?” No. 125 tacked on at the last, to cover himself: “—Who is it?” 

“Oh, it’s not out of our way! He’s chief engineer on his own railway. You’ll recognize him; he takes our train often. He’s gotten permission to come with us in the cab to get back to our yard.” 

It would have been nice if the errand _had_ taken him out of their way. 125 hadn’t been properly off their line in years and years. 

But he hid his disappointment. He was pretty well-practiced at that. His crew never suspected that he was discontent… though his brothers knew, without his saying much of anything, in the way that brothers always do know these things. Nearly every one of them took it upon themselves, at times, to give him a bit of a wholesome scolding, reminding him of all he ought to be grateful for. Which 125 found a little hard, when after all he _was_ grateful, and _hadn't_ complained. 

There were a baker's dozen of them. The brothers all worked passenger services on their railway's main line, some of them helping here and there, but more of them than not on express duties full-time. They were a matched set of four-coupled engines with four driving wheels, which made them stable at high speeds, and deep clay-red paint with black lining. If you traveled on one of their trains, most of you wouldn't have been able to tell most of them apart, except by their number plates, or, if you have a quick ear, by their whistles. But they knew each other, even at a distant glance. And they had little nicknames for each other, based on how they could tell, which they used only when they were sure their railwaymen could not hear them.

The irony here was that the men had independently come up with many of the same nicknames to distinguish their charges, which _they_ were careful not to use in the _engines'_ hearing. 

There were quite a few odd little things like that, on their railway. Another such was that there you did not often hear engines singing or chanting as they puffed along. 125 did, and rather scandalized some of his brothers. But they had all of them learned over the years that a small dash of tolerance went a long way. Anyway, he claimed it helped him keep his time, and they couldn't deny that he managed his timetables a little better than most. 

The line was altogether too mismanaged for any of them to do it very well, though the brothers tried their best. They all took a great deal of pride in their lofty assignment, 125 no less than the rest, policing each other even more vigilantly than the railwaymen did—and taking care of each other, too, despite their differences. Yes, 125 knew, objectively, that his was no bad life… 

After all, he got to run very far—as far as any engine on the line, all the way from junction to junction, at which he could chat with engines from the neighboring railways. 

And he got to run very fast—much faster that he’d been allowed to when he was younger, on the secondary lines—and that was his saving grace, for it was good fun; plus, it tired him out, and that kept him from being too bored in between shifts. 

And, every so often, a run would be specially satisfying, and not so exactly like every other. Such as this one. 125 was held up at junction only twelve minutes. Now _that_ was time which might be made up! And would be noticed! (He would have tried anyway, but it would have been more work than play. When a train is 44 minutes late, no passenger is too thrilled by the observation that it _could_ have been 56.) It was no certain thing, however—it was better than that; it was a _challenge_. It required careful management, and rushing through the straights with a hard will, and a little good luck at the signals—

They steamed into Barrow just on time at 6:05, with the sun rising and the air fresh. 

_That_ was the start of a good day, indeed—although for him it was the end of a good night. 

Usually by now he was good and ready to get home and doze off in the morning air as he was cleaned. But that morning he was quite alert—because he was still so happy about that last journey. At first he took little interest in the special guest. He didn't need to. He wasn't supposed to speak in mixed company.

But their guest did speak to 125, before climbing into his cab. “Good morning! Thank you for a nice ride. It _was_ good to make it in on time this morning.” 

125 was pleased. And his driver was right: he did recognize this man, who was short and energetic, and who lately had been taking night trains down to the end of their line every fortnight or so, and who had greeted or thanked him once or twice before. 

He was now surprised to find that this man worked for a railway. Normally only tourists and children spoke to engines—or, to be sure, retired footplatemen. (Some of his brothers groaned silently to themselves whenever they spotted one of these retirees hanging round a platform. But 125 never minded these old drivers and firemen waxing nostalgic. They had stories about all sorts of different lines and different engines… and it now occurred to him that, if his luck held, he might be in for a little of the same this morning.)

It did. On the much slower journey, running ‘light’ back to the yards, their guest answered the driver’s questions very readily, and soon freely told them all his business. 

“No indeed, we’re not at all so very new to rail as you seem to think, on our island,” laughed the chief engineer, “we’ve had many small railways for as long as anyone, and perhaps love them more than most! Up there, steam is in the people’s blood. It employs almost quarter of our people, in one way or another.”

“Thought your lot had only the one railway!” said the driver. 

“We had six, and that was before our big new one! Yes, we had a very nice light commuter railway, where I got my start, and it's worked by the tiniest engines we could fashion, taller than they are long, whom we call our ‘Coffee Pots.’ Up in our steepest mountains is an all-electric outfit, not quite like any I’ve seen anywhere else. And the heart of it all used to be the most beautiful narrow-gauge railway, and it still enables half the industry on our island, but it _is_ impractical for connecting the many different regions to the mainland.” 

“They say, sir,” said the driver, “that your new railway intends to construct a great viaduct, and then we’ll share a junction.” 

“That will be our crowning jewel!” agreed the engineer. “It’s still years away though, and we have plenty of work before we get there. Right now we are starting to join up the old standard-gauge railways—three of them. That’s all on the western end of the island, and it would be impractical to haul an engine so far over road; any locos we borrow will have to come by ship.” 

“Aren’t you also running war material, though?” laughed the fireman. “Forgive me for saying, sir, but it sounds like a recipe for rather a lot of disorder.”

“Oh, it is that,” agreed the chief engineer grimly, though not unhappily. “It's almost disgraceful, to look upon some the confusion we have up there, trying to build sidings just as they are needed. Each of our four little engines on the southern line has gotten boxed in by the trucks, and has needed to be rescued by construction of extra line! We’ve had to close down passenger trains for the winter, and the locals are furious, but it’s simply no good. We’ll try to run limited services again this summer, but, between you and me, it won’t be enough to suit them. Anyway, that’s why I was down the other end of the line. We need to make arrangements to install bigger bunkers on two of the tank engines if they are going to help work the main line, as we intend they will, once we've joined it to their own.” 

“They must be excited, then?” 

“Not much. Poor things! These two have been moved to the construction site, and are sleeping in the open air, and rather upset by all the changes. Still more, we must expand our harbors, and we’re to put in a brand-new line out by the coast. I’m certainly glad I’m not in charge of it all! I have enough to do managing our stock and looking for more. Do you work with any of the mixed-traffic lot, driver?” 

“It’s been a few years; I’ve since been only with 125 here. But the master of the yard knows all our engines very well. He’ll be able to make you a good recommendation.” 

“I visited Camford yards the other day. They most of them seemed decent engines, but very quiet. I couldn’t imagine their nerves standing the journey, nor the atmosphere up on our island.” 

“I have heard of ‘Sodor license,’ sir,” said the fireman. 

125 was wondering what the license was _for_ , but it remained a mystery. None of the men did anything but chuckle. 

“It’s discouraged here, Mr. Hatt,” said the driver, “but that doesn’t mean some of them aren’t inclined that way naturally. Again, the master of the yard has a good feel on each of them. _He_ ’ll let you know if we have any. And you can trust him to be honest, and tell you if we don’t.” 

“Just right!” said the engineer cheerfully. 

When 125 pulled into the yard, he was flagged to a siding. There was a bit of confusion surrounding the morning’s orders, and the signalman gestured urgently for driver and fireman, who were union-men, to come over and consult. 

The driver put the brakes hard on, and asked Mr. Hatt if he wouldn’t wait with their idling engine for a moment, until the snarl could be sorted out. The engineer agreed readily, though he disembarked from the cab to get some air, pat down his dirtied suit and top hat, and peer about the yard. 

The engine did not dare speak to the man until spoken to, but he soon got his chance. Mr. Hatt stared at the confusion between the four engines jammed at the switches. “Bless me! Do they go through all this bother every morning, 125?” 

“Not every morning, sir,” said the engine. “Weekly, perhaps. It’s something about the union and the contracts, sir, and I don’t really understand it.” 

“Nor should you,” agreed the engineer. “All for the best.” 

“Your new railway sounds awfully interesting, sir,” said the engine shyly. “I liked hearing about your island.” 

Mr. Hatt smiled. “I’m a little surprised you should be able to pay attention to all that, at the end of a long night shift!” 

“Oh, yes! I hope you don’t mind, sir. I would have listened to a great deal more.” 

“Why, you _were_ my ride. I shouldn’t have said what I was unwilling for you to hear. Was there anything you wanted to ask me about?” 

The engine hesitated, and then decided to go for it. He’d have to wait another decade for a chance like this, if he ever got one at all, and the idea of going on that long on that very same line, doing the very same thing each day, was so painfully dull to think of that it gave him courage. 

“Do—do—do you think, sir, that I might suit your needs? I’m a lot stronger than your tank engines, and I promise I’d work awfully hard to help get your railway built up, if you sent for me.” 

The chief engineer was caught off-guard, but he didn't grow angry. Instead, he smiled once more. 

“I believe you would, 125. But I don’t believe an express engine like you would be very happy there—certainly not for the next few years, while we get going. It would all be slow, rough work, and done in precious little comfort.” 

125 blushed but continued, “I suppose I don’t know, but I don’t _think_ that I should mind that.” 

“Have you ever worked with trucks, 125?” The chief engineer asked this gently; he knew the likely answer. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, for I see that you are willing, but what we need right now is an engine who is experienced with goods and shunting both, and ready to tackle all sorts of other odd things. You do very well taking care of your passengers, and are much better use where you are.” 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The man was kind, but firm, and the engine knew that there was to be no further discussion. 

The conversation was over before his driver and fireman came back, the former to escort Mr. Hatt over to yard headquarters. 

Despite his embarrassment, the engine was glad at least that he’d gotten up the nerve to ask. 

And he was _very_ glad that they hadn’t been overheard. The others wouldn’t have let him hear the end of it for months. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya more than welcome to comment with your “confusion level on a scale of 1 to 10” or “guesses as to wtf is going on.” <3


	2. The Late Train

**II — The Late Train**

No. 125 still saw the chief engineer from the island railway by and by, for Mr. Hatt continued to take the predawn train to Barrow about every two weeks, and 125 continued to pull it. 

The engine had made up his mind to get over his disappointment, but he didn’t have a chance to put it to the test of actual deportment, for the man kept his distance, only nodding to the engine as he passed. 125 found _this_ disappointment a bit harder to reconcile, for he should have at least liked to have been able to ask how the new railway was coming along, even if he had no hopes of going there. But he supposed it was for the best. Anyway, he was able to occupy quite a lot of time trying to imagine engines taller than they were long, and where there might ever be a viaduct visible from Barrow.

That night, at they prepared to leave the inland station, the engine had more urgent things on his mind. 

The connecting train from their neighboring railway steamed in late. It was an especially long run, and whichever forest-green engine had its charge was usually tired out on arrival. But the one tonight looked particularly exhausted, and she eyed 125 with sympathy. 

“Well, tag,” she said, breathless, “ _you_ ’re It.” 

“Oh, no,” groaned 125. “You don’t mean—”

Her driver and fireman swung out of her cab, very merry, and in far too high spirits for four-oh-five in the morning. 

The four engines at the junction remained silent until they had passed out of earshot. 

But no amount of discipline could have kept them from a hissed consultation afterwards. These two relief-men were infamous throughout both their railways. 

“They’re as bad as ever I’ve seen them!” said 20.

“And they’re about to get worse,” whispered the connecting engine. “I heard them talking in my cab.” 

“Surely all those spots are closed at this hour,” said 33. 

“You’d think. But it sounds like there's a stash in the station house somewhere, and they have plans to retrieve it, right now.” 

“Oh, dear,” said 33. “Maybe you’d better say something to the stationmaster, Highline.” 

“No indeed,” 125 snorted. “You know I can manage.” 

“But your passengers—”

“I know, Clip. But if he _did_ care, and it sounds from what she says that he doesn’t, stationmaster's quite likely in the end to say there’s no help for it anyway. There will be a great bother, we’ll come in more delayed than ever—and the train won’t be any the safer.” 

“Well,” said 33. They hardly ever brought up anything to their humans anyway, and he hadn’t been quite sure this met the bar to begin with.

“Anyway,” said 125, pressing his advantage, "I've had practice, you know. No one more.”

“Are you actually," sighed 33, " _bragging_ about—?” 

125 rolled his eyes. “Should never dare! But it is useful, just now.” 

The brothers had rather a moment’s staring match. 

“I suppose you’re right." 33 sighed again. He tended to carry a lot of weight on his buffers. "But do take it slow, would you?” 

“Easier said than done, eh, 125?” grinned 20. “You can’t stay on the rails with a crew that’s stone sob—” 

“Oh, _shut_ it, you,” cut in 33. “It’s been fifteen years, and he hasn’t had an accident since. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”

No. 33 himself brought up 125’s old wreck at least once a month, and he had not the least intention of laying off for the next fifteen years to come. But 20 wasn’t part of the family. Not altogether a bad sort—but not family.

“We’ll be fine,” said 125. “You’ll see.” 

125’s usual driver soon noticed too, and he was angry, for they had been promised to no longer be relieved by these two. But with men enlisting in great numbers for the war, and even trained footplatemen among the volunteers, he supposed there had been little choice. 

“Perhaps we ought to stay on,” he said to the fireman, eying up the substitute crew. They had gotten permission to clock out at this station, so that they could stay with their families for a holiday weekend; they were brothers-in-law, and had worked over Christmas itself, so now their whole family had made plans to come together and celebrate late. 

He was one of the kinder drivers on that railway, but none of the engines, even his own, spoke up. The fireman, however, said roughly what was on 125’s mind. “Our engine knows just what to do; you may overestimate how much he needs you at all! Anyway, I’m not happy about it either, but if we gave up our own plans every time they mismanaged this railway we shouldn’t have any souls left to call our own.” 

So they bid 125 farewell and left to catch the train to their family’s village. 

The relief crew came out of the stationhouse, perhaps with a suspicious bulge under the fireman’s coat, but they looked professional and sounded crisp throughout all the preparations, and nipped into the cab without incident, and did not let loose their laughter until the cover of the guard’s whistle. 

On 125’s railway, drivers were proud to be known in no danger of ever spoiling an engine. If the relief crew had done nothing more than throw out a “Look sharp, you” and a growled warning to behave before mounting his cab, 125 should not have thought much of it. But almost none of men, even there, would dream of failing altogether to acknowledge their engine before beginning their work. To treat them as if they weren’t even alive at all— _that_ was rude. _That_ stung.

125 blasted an annoyed whistle as pulled the train out of the station. It was necessary to relieve his feelings in some manner, and to clear his head for the task ahead—even if it _did_ make 20 grin in a mocking way.

* * * 

Although it was winter, when the sun came late, it still beat them to the station at the end of the line. Passengers disembarked from the train grumbling; many yawning, some rather outraged, and a few making a straight march into the station house. 

When the platform had mostly cleared, 125 let off a great deal of steam. It did not feel nearly satisfying enough, and he closed his eyes. It had been a trying journey, struggling against his crew nearly all the way. They had tried to push him on to make up time they themselves had lost, and he, not trusting them in the least, had refused to be hurried to an unsafe speed. 

It is deeply uncomfortable for an engine to go on so long resisting the lure of an open regulator, and he ached from the effort, as well as from the effort of paying strict attention every moment. There’s no fun at all in essentially driving as well as pulling a train. It had been he who minded the pressure in his boiler, who took note of what the signals actually said, and who (angering them the most of all) asked for a brake check at a summit; but he’d have been a fool to assume they could manage.

What with one thing and another, they had sworn at him quite a bit as they clattered down the line. Then, at Barrow, they had come to a stop at the very furthest end of the platform—in fact, they should probably have overshot it, if 125 hadn’t begun resisting his train far in advance of his driver’s belated efforts—leaving him stranded too far out to talk to any of the other waiting engines. And now they had disappeared for some while, when all 125 asked of life just then was to get back to his shed and sleep off the night. 

He was left with nothing to do but overhear the furor and try not to take the passengers’ complaints too much to heart. He hated to displease them. But he had gotten everyone in safely, and he knew that, under the circumstances, that was the main thing. 

He began to hum nonsensically, listless and dull. He had been too occupied to sing on the journey, and was too tired to sing now, but the noise distracted him a bit, and kept loneliness at bay. 

“125?” 

Someone had come up all the way to the top end of the platform. The engine opened his eyes to see the chief engineer from the island beyond Barrow. 

Mr. Hatt had not spoken a word to 125 since the day he had visited the yard, as if not wanting to encourage any further familiarity. But now he smiled. “I am sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to say it was a good piece of work that you’ve done this morning.” 

The engine began to feel more himself again at once. That was all he had needed. “Oh, that’s very kind of you, sir! I know I was rather a disappointment to most of my passengers.” 

“Yes, which is why I knew I had to come by,” said the chief engineer. “Laypeople wouldn’t have noticed. _I_ saw the condition of the crew back at Carnforth, and was alarmed, until I saw you had charge of the train. Then I thought it would probably be all right. Sure enough, I never felt a moment’s anxiety on that journey. You minded your rails very well indeed.”

“Thank you very much, sir. Oh, wouldn’t my old driver have been proud to hear you say that!"

“Did he have to take special pains to teach you?” asked the chief engineer, with such friendly interest that 125, though surprised, wasn’t a bit abashed to own it. 

“Oh, yes, sir. Distraction was a great fault of mine when I was new—that, and a liking for going as fast as I could get away with. He was a great man, far better to me than I deserved, and any good I’ve ever done is down to him.”

“Well! I must have the whole story, now.” And the chief engineer settled onto a bench, beginning to unwrap some bread and butter that he had about him for breakfast. 

“Oh! But you haven’t got time, sir?” 

This was a little in the line of an excuse on the engine’s part, for, while he was more than willing to chat whenever he was allowed, he _was_ abashed at the idea of telling a ‘story’ to anyone—especially to a person—and especially to a person like this. 

Nevertheless, he’d had cause to think about his old driver quite a bit recently, and couldn’t refuse a chance to tell someone about him, especially when Mr. Hatt replied, with a sort of grim gaiety: 

“Indeed I have, for my connecting train is due at 7:55, which I suppose means it will be here no earlier than half-past. And _you_ have, for I told the stationmaster all about your crew, and that they are _somehow_ worse off now than they were back in Carnforth, and you will have to wait here a bit for another driver to take you safely home. So be a good engine, and keep me company while we wait.” He broke off a piece of crumpet as he added: “Like most steam men, I have a strange illness. I like a good railway story even better than hot tea.” 

But the stationmaster emerged later with a tin mug, and saw to it that Mr. Hatt wound up enjoying both.


	3. The Fun of It All

**III — The Fun of It All**

“Well, sir,” said 125, after taking a moment to gather his thoughts, and trying not to make too much of a hash of his tale, “the driver I’m speaking about was my fireman, actually, when I first entered service. And it’s a wonder he was ever such a good friend to me, since I led him quite a life of it, that first year. I had a bad trick of burning through coal very quickly, with nothing much to show for it, and he used to grumble that I simply enjoyed keeping him at a brisk hop. 

“Really he might have been closer to the truth than anyone else, for the engineers and fitters had some bother trying to figure out why, when none of my brothers had done this. They had all been sound as a bell, which is why they had made a few more of us—I am the very youngest. They looked into all sorts of things to explain what had gone wrong in my making, but never did figure it out. I suppose the truth was that it was all my own doing. I seemed to always be very excitable, running hot and fast, and I didn’t make much effort to take things steadier—at least, no good resolution of mine ever seemed to last longer than a day. And my old fireman was usually right about these things, anyway. But we can’t know the cause of the coal problem for sure, and you’ll know why by the end of the story.

“That wasn’t even my worst trick, though. From the start, I wanted to be on different lines, even if only for the shortest bit, or stay out as late as possible, or see just how fast I could go, and—”

It was hard here for 125 to finish. He reminded himself that, after all, he had no hope of the chief engineer wanting him on his new railway, so he would do no harm there; however, he liked Mr. Hatt for his own sake, and still didn’t like to confess this one to him. 

What helped was thinking of dear Mr. Aubrey. The story was about his old fireman, not himself, and _that_ was a story he was glad to tell. So he swallowed and continued. 

“—and, sometimes, I, I would play dumb, sir, at my driver’s controls.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Hatt gravely. 

With that much out and over with, the rest came easier. “My driver had only recently been switched from freight to passenger duties, and blamed himself, as not yet familiar with me or my kind. It was my fireman who figured it out, and he wasn’t half furious…” 

***

“I have told you again and _again_ , boy—you aren’t taking out trains for the fun of the thing—it’s a solemn responsibility!” 

Jack Aubrey, the fireman, had been going on in this vein for a while now. He had never looked so angry. In fact, 125 had never known him to yell. The pointed finger was also new. 

For the first time in the young engine’s life, he felt small. 

“It’s as if you don’t give a flying hang about the safety of the passengers—you are all but _begging_ for an accident! Tell me this isn’t something you _want_?” 

This appeal had been tried by others—his driver, his manager, and many of the older engines, and even, so desperate was the situation, by his own triplets, who were scarcely a week or two older than him—but it had always before left 125 cold. He had never seriously thought through the thing, but, if you had pressed him to explain himself, he probably would have said that accidents didn’t really happen, after all—not serious ones. They were stories made up to convince young and gullible engines to give up trying to find any enjoyment in life. 

But, if his fireman was the one making the fuss, and felt this strongly about the matter, then for the first time he was willing to truly consider there might be something in it. 

“Of course not, sir,” he said—or rather whispered. “But no one’s been hurt in the least…” 

This point did not have the effect that 125 hoped it would. Jack Aubrey did stop yelling, and grew very calm. But this was far worse. 

He stared up at his engine in disbelief for some long while, and his voice was quiet and cool when he finally said, “Well, I hate this, 125. You’ve frustrated the hell of me before. But until now I’ve never been ashamed of you.” 

The fireman had nothing more to say, even though he still had several duties left, mostly concerning the care and cleaning of his engine. He discharged them punctiliously—neither cruelty nor neglect was in his nature—but silently. And 125 felt keenly at every touch how much the fireman did not want to do them.

“Mr. Aubrey,” whispered 125, as the fireman pulled on his jacket and cap to leave, “I _will_ do better.” 

The fireman remained quite cool, and did not look at him. “Please do.” 

So, 125 did—for a time. 

He found it wasn’t so easy, for he had unknowingly developed real inattention due to his pretending, and it’s always a slog to unlearn bad habits. 

But he kept at it, and what’s more he kept at it not just a day or two, but weeks. The fireman, who was so tough to fool, could tell the difference between real mistakes and deliberate ones, and anyway 125, though his running was still a little rough on the crew, objectively had no mishaps worth mentioning, for a while. 

Weeks turned into a month, and a month turned into two, and the fireman finally thawed. He had never doubted his engine’s good nature, only his resolution. 125 found, however, that there was a different, but real, sort of enjoyment in learning as much as he could, and found some pleasure in pushing himself to see just how well he could do his work, and in finding that, when he determined, he _could_ stick with something after all. In fact, after this, determination would never be one of his problems. (Sometimes, in fact, it would be his undoing. But that's another story.)

This all went on long enough that the fireman began to trust his engine, and to believe that he had at last really gotten through to him. 

But this time he was only partly right. 

For something _was_ different, this time, about 125’s resolution. Shocked by such blistering reproof from Mr. Aubrey, he had indeed thought it all through quite seriously. His desire to please his fireman, his ambition to live up to the rest of the family, his responsibility to his passengers—all of these, he had weighed against the still irresistible pull of his natural high spirits. 

And, at the end of it all, he had been able to stick with his latest attempt to improve precisely because it came with one reservation. 

It seemed to him rather hard that he should _never_ be able to go out for a bit of pure fun. After all, even the least skilled and lowest-ranked laborers on the line sometimes got a holiday. 

So he had decided that he would work hard and well, but, to satisfy his unmet longing in the safest manner, he would wait until a day when he had an empty rake of coaches. There would be no passengers to worry about, and then for once he would see how fast he could go. 

The plan was all the more foolish for how very carefully it had been considered. He knew that, sooner or later, there would be a time when the timetables got hopelessly snagged, and he was given an empty train; he saw it happen to others, and he was prepared to wait years, if necessary. It might even be better that way, for by then he might be promoted to the main line, and have an even nicer time of it. (One of his own triplets had already been sent there, at merely six months old, and had told them about the scope and sweep and straightness of it—at least, he had told the third triplet, in 125's hearing. No. 124 was stiff and serious, and from the start rather ashamed of his flighty younger brother.)

He knew too that he would then be in very serious trouble, and would again risk any good name he had gained, especially with his fireman, who would not be fooled into thinking that it was any accident. But he had looked coolly on the prospect and decided to lump it. It would only be once, and eventually it would all blow over, and he would be content to settle back down to a dutiful life after that—if he could have a perfectly mad and careless run just _once_. 

***

He didn’t have to wait years. Only about three months. 

It was a sunny, buggy summer day. The previous train had come in so very late that the passengers for 125’s train had already been able to depart. 

He fairly held his breath at the little platform until it was time for them to go. There were never very many on the early afternoon train anyway… it was a sleepy suburban line, at the sleepiest hour of daylight… 

Some of his nerves began to quail, and a small part of him actually _hoped_ someone would arrive. 

But their time came and went. “Not a single one, then?” the driver called back to the guard. 

“Just us four!” the guard hollered, with a shrug. He wasn’t including the engine in his count: he had a trainee with him in the final coach, that day, though 125 didn’t know this. If he’d had, it might have been the excuse that he half wanted. “We’re over ten minutes late, though!” So he blew his whistle, and the poor driver, with no idea what he was in for, opened the regulator. 

“Just us four, just us four!” 125 puffed. 

It took some while for the engine to build up speed. It didn’t help that Jack Aubrey was in no way being generous with his fuel, for it wasn’t needed, and he’d been trying to train his engine to make better use of less. 

But the fireman couldn’t hold back forever. There was a hill about midway between the two stations, and 125 would need a good head of steam for it. 

“Take it steady, boy!” he shouted over the din of the rails’ pounding, as the driver had to keep one hand on the regulator, knuckles white. “It’s hardly Mt. Everest we’ve got ahead!” 

125 took it _steadier_ , but not slower. He was not yet nearly satisfied, and figured they should have to get the hill out of the way, and after that there was a nice long stretch, and he could finally find his limits. 

At the summit, he cooperated with the brake-check… mostly… for even to him it seemed reckless to take the descent full-tilt. But, about one-third of the way downhill, he gave a great surge. His driver’s hand briefly slipped from the regulator, and the man fought hard the rest of the way, but he never regained control. 

The world flew by, the fireman held on to the window opening for dear life, the coaches screeched and scolded, and, knowing only a rush of joy, the engine laughed. 

They whooshed down the line—hit the level ground smooth and swift as a shot—

—the driver wrestled with the brakes—

—well-practiced in resisting his controls, the engine sped on—

Originally he had planned to slow down around the lumber-yard; even to him, in all his folly, it seemed that, much like the top of the hill, that curve was a place one must slow, a little, if the fun were to continue. 

But he’d never gone so fast, and the curve came up before he’d realized it. 

His brakes now screeched; sparks flew; it was all too late, and he sailed into a roll off the curve, knocking round and about several times over, and only coming to a hard stop after slamming through several pallets of sawed planks. 

***

The crew had all jumped clear, which still meant that the guard and fireman each broke an arm, and the fireman sprained his ankle, to boot. The guard’s trainee never rode the rails again, as worker nor passenger neither, for the rest of his days. 

A coupling had snapped near the front of the train, which was a mercy to the coaches, but they were all more or less hurt—mostly less, but the leading one, who had only snapped from the engine after taking a tumble with him, was so damaged that she never fully returned to service, and was relegated afterwards to spare stock. 

No. 125 might have been more shocked and derailed than seriously hurt… up until the point where hot spilled coals, fresh from his firebox, found themselves among sawdust, and shavings, and chunks of wood debris.

***

“Why didn’t your own workshop make the repairs?” asked Mr. Hatt. 

125 blinked. “How did you—?” he began, but the chief engineer only gave him an ironical look, and the engine blushed. 

“I’ve seen a few of your brothers on the line, and you’re not identical to them anymore. That cab and boiler look N.E.R. to me.” 

“Yes, sir, exactly right. My firebox, too. Our chief engineer decided it was better to replace it, and have outsiders do the work, to settle once and for all whether there had been some flaw in my making that had been missed here.”

“You must have had a hard time of it on your return, for you would have been stronger then, and trying to learn to manage your new power under the least forgiving scrutiny.” 

125 was grateful he understood, for he had never found a way to say it to anyone, and he would have skipped this bit, otherwise. It sounded too much like complaining, when he had no right to. “You _do_ know engines, sir! They sent me back home with a train—and a _very_ experienced crew—rather than tie up the line with a light engine. I was shaken to my senses by the wreck, and terribly ashamed, and I did try to be as careful as I could, truly I did. There was nothing doing, though. I didn't know that line, and was awful clumsy, and bumped the coaches, and kept going too weak or too strong by turns, not able to find a steady pace. Everyone was quite disgusted. I’m sure I don’t blame them, sir, but I had already been in disgrace, and now I was almost written off completely, as a lost cause.” 

“But they wouldn’t have given up yet,” said Mr. Hatt, “not having just made such an investment. I fear I won’t like the next part of this story much.” 

The engine _was_ amazed. “I didn’t mean to tell that part at all, sir.” 

“Oh, I have tea now, you know, and my ears aren’t so very delicate. They assigned you a break-man, then? Seems to me it will be hard to fully explain about your fireman, without mentioning him.” 

“Yes, sir. Though it was a few weeks before the breaker could arrive…” 


	4. The Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… this final chapter is definitely where the formative-Louisa-May-Alcott-of-it-all that lurks deep within our souls burst from the creative depths and _roared_.

**IV — The Cure**

A ‘break-man’ is not a job title. It’s just a driver, who, especially in the old days, was valued for making useful the most difficult and dangerous engines. 

They were hard, stern men, with a courage so hardened that it became less of a virtue, and more of a suit of armor. Not all railways found them good policy even back then, and today they are virtually unknown. 

The other engines told 125, stuck idle in the sheds to wait on his new driver, stories about this man. Some of the stories would prove exaggerated; others not. In the amiable fashion of most any yard, they got in quite a lot of mockery over his carelessness and accident, and told him that with his new driver he should finally learn better—told him with a dark glee that made him quite dread his return to service. (He had lost his skepticism about tales told to keep new engines in line somewhere between rollover two and three in that lumber-yard.) His new shape, of course, also drew its fair share of commentary and jibes. Knocking down 125 was the greatest entertainment going for a while. 

The exceptions to this were his brothers; they scarcely spoke to him at all, not even to scold or mock. Almost none of them found a funny side to any of this (No. 12 excepted—he cracked the loudest jokes in the shed, which made him the second least-favorite brother, as the others thought the thing should be handled with a modicum of dignity, if you please!) Some of them said outright, both to his face and in speaking with others, that they were glad that 125 was no longer identical to them, and that as far as they were concerned he was disowned from the family. Usually there was a proviso made that they _might_ accept him again, if he completed the cure with the breaker, and was rehabilitated… a proviso expressed with obvious doubt. A couple of the brothers, however, declared that they would never acknowledge him as one of them again, not under any circumstances; there was no coming back from this. One of the two was his own triplet from the workshop, the one who had been promoted to the main line so early; he’d had to be recalled to take up 125’s duties while he was away, and was not returned to his old assignment for two years afterwards. He could not have been more furious and disgusted. 

“I doubt the breaker can cure that one,” 124 was heard to say, though not to 125 himself, “but I don’t half hope he makes him suffer first, before he’s sent away after all.” 

“Never fear,” chuckled 124’s companion. “They have all sorts of methods, each more miserable than the last. It always makes for good watching.” 

125 was not sure how he could be more miserable than he already was. 

He was conscious, as he sat cold, of the bulk of his enlarged boiler and firebox. He wanted to behave very well indeed, originally out of pure remorse, but now increasingly due to fear of how his new driver should punish any errors. Nor did he see how he could avoid them, feeling quite a new engine again, and needing some practice on the rails before he knew his new strength. 

He knew he deserved nothing better, but he was terribly alone, and in despair. And he might have quite lost his grip, had his old fireman not come to see him a week after his return to the shed. 

For a long moment man and engine simply stared at each other, and took in each other’s changes. The fireman was in a walking cast, and did not speak. 

Normally, of course, that meant the engine shouldn’t have either. But it was such a small transgression, after everything else he’d done, and 125 couldn’t take not finding out. “Mr. Aubrey… how—how is your leg, then?” 

“Making a good recovery,” said the fireman, guarded. “I’ve been on shop duty, to give it a rest, and doctor says we’ll have the brace off soon.” 

“I—I…” He almost said he was glad, meaning at the news that it wasn’t any worse, but then caught himself. 

But he could not even say he was sorry, for he started to cry. 

“I am sure you are,” said the fireman, half soothing, half reproving, quite as if the engine had gotten out the apology, “and I’m sure you should be. You are extraordinarily lucky, 125, that my foot was the worst of it. Well, apart from your damage.” 

“And the coaches,” sighed 125, shakily, trying to control himself. “S-39 is quite busted up, they tell me, and may never run again. I, I wish I could have been hurt more, and everyone else less. You _told_ me, and told me, and…” 

“There now, boy.” Jack Aubrey was not a man to be turned round by a few tears. But he also saw at once that 125 had thought of nothing else in the past six weeks, both at the works and in the shed, and needed some gentleness, or at least a change. “I did, but I see that you are sorry. Come, let’s have a proper visit. What’s all the news here in the yard?” 

125 laughed bitterly. “To listen to everyone talk, there’s not much else but—me. And the new driver…” 

“Yes, I heard that. He’s a hard one, 125.” 

The engine shook a little. “I know I need someone to be hard on me, sir. And I hope the cure works. I’ll do my best to be a better engine. But—but—oh, I _am_ scared, Mr. Aubrey. My shape is new, my firebox is new, I’ll have a new crew—and the waiting is awful.” 

“No, you won’t have a completely new crew. I’ll be ready to be fireman again, by the time the breaker gets here.”

“Wh—What?” Jack Aubrey only looked levelly at him, with affection, and 125 was overwhelmed. “With me? But—oh, but you mustn’t, sir—after I hurt you like that?”

“Will you again?” asked the fireman.

“Oh, _no_ , sir! _Never_.” 

“Well, I believe you. I never wanted you to have to learn in this way, but I don’t think you’re such a fool that an experience like this could fail to teach you anything. A tumble like that, and being on fire for a good half-hour, is all the cure an engine should ever need, and, if that fails to take, then you’re quite hopeless indeed. But I don’t think so. You must have some good in there, 125, for I never could help being fond of you, and no sprained ankle is going to make me give up before I’ve made something of you. This visit isn’t going so well,” he added wryly, for the engine was completely lost now, broken by relief. 

He still had one friend in his corner. 

***

“I’m sure I’m grateful that they gave me the break-man, sir,” 125 said quietly to Mr. Hatt, and there was a lack of conviction in his voice, but not a hint of sarcasm, “for he gave me a chance to earn a better name, and taught me a great deal about self-control. But I am sure I learned just as much from Mr. Aubrey. His instructions were always clear, and easier to make sense of, somehow. 

“During my disgrace he was more patient and attentive to me than ever. He did not put up with any sulkiness or shirking from me, and often talked sound sense, reminding me that it was all my own doing, whenever I was in danger of feeling sorry for myself. He told me sternly that both men and engines have had their entire lives ruined over smaller mistakes than mine, and I was very lucky to have a second chance—at any sort of future at all. But he did try to keep my spirits up, and kept my mind on normal life and things as much as possible, and praised me when I had earned it... and treated me a little, on the sly. Without his kindness I believe I should have broken down before the cure was through. _With_ his kindness, I learned just about everything I know. I feared the breaker, but I feared disappointing my fireman ever again five times more. I suppose I’ve gone on too long, though,” he added, in apology, for he could hear the platform beginning to fill once more.

Mr. Hatt was quite serious. “I like to hear about the fine men of the world, and I should have liked your Mr. Aubrey. Did they try to get him to use another engine when he made driver, then?” 

“How did—”

The chief engineer looked rather smug. “I know railwaymen almost as well as I know engines, 125. After all, that breaker was no more popular with the firemen than with the engines, I’m sure, and this one put up with him, for your sake.” 

“I never thought of that!” 125 was stunned. 

“He wouldn’t have wanted you to, though I think you can bear the knowledge, now. Anyway, he certainly wouldn’t have had anyone but you to make his qualifications.” 

“Yes, sir,” said 125, softly at first, “though he _was_ offered another engine, many times, including at last one of my brothers, on grounds that it should be the easiest switch in the world. And I begged him to take them up on it, since I still gave a few small difficulties that even the break-man couldn’t seem to cure. I couldn’t have borne it, to stand in the way of him and his success—no one deserved it more. But he only quite snorted, and said that I should no longer be the least bit difficult, not once he was at my controls for a few days.” 

“Oho! He sounds like a man who knew his business.”

“Oh, yes, sir! By that point he was very, very clever about his work, and commanded great respect, from every man and engine on the line. I remember the day he qualified well. There’s no particular story to it, but it was an lovely proud day.” 

“He’s not on this railway anymore?” 

“No, sir. He married, a couple of years after making driver, and they went to start a family somewhere else—oh, and it was wonderful to see him so happy, though of course I was sorry to say good-bye. I haven’t had any news of him lately, but I have been thinking, sir, that he probably enlisted last summer. I can remember him saying once that he would answer a call like that right away.” 

“Did your brothers ever forgive you?” 

This seemed like an abrupt change of topic to 125, who had not mentioned his brothers’ reaction to the accident at all—although, dear reader, _I_ chose to, so that you should not be so surprised as 125, when the question was put.

Anyway, 125 was beyond querying as to how the chief engineer somehow knew all sorts of details of what he had thought a simple story. Though he himself surprised Mr. Hatt, a little, when he said: “Yes, sir, we’re all quite family again.” 

“Really now?” 

“It took some longer than others, but most of them were quite prepared to talk to me again, by the time the cure was over. And thanks to Mr. Aubrey I haven’t really had any trouble with my work since. The only thing of it is, sir,” 125 added, with a chuckle, “it’s been fifteen years now, and I still can't make the slightest grumble about my work, in the ordinary way one engine might pass the time with another while waiting at station. Because whenever I dare, word always gets round, and I’m bound to hear the same thing from all twelve of them over the course of the next week: ‘You finally get to run fast at night; _aren't_ you satisfied yet?’” 

“And you all otherwise get on?” He saw that 125 was rather surprised at this continued line of questioning, and he smiled, a little disingenuously. “I have a older brother myself, so I can’t help but imagine how life would go down with a dozen.” 

The truth was that he was surprised that an engine with such a tight-knit family should have asked him for a chance to go elsewhere. 

And, as he had seen already, 125 was capable of censoring his story, omitting as much unpleasantness as the engineer would let him get away with. 

That was rather an unusual quality in an engine, and Mr. Hatt was still not sure how he felt about it…. except, he supposed, that break-men’s “cured” engines were usually left with worse flaws than this. 

“Yes, sir. Well, it’s true that I don’t think it’s possible for all thirteen of us to ever all be in perfect harmony at once—there’s always some fuss or another—I’m often the one sorting it out, actually; the thing they’d tell you I’m useful for is making peace between any two, when it gets too bad! But yes, on the whole I’d say we get on pretty well, and each of us looks out for the other, as we ought. They’re good engines, all of them,” he added, with a not unreasonable pride. “If they haven’t been mentioned to you, sir, then you might inquire about my oldest brothers, the four original Seagulls. They’re not tank engines either, but smaller than the rest of us, a nice medium size, and they have just the experience you want—having done a little bit of everything, and all of it well.” 

“I’ve already started asking after the engines I’m considering,” said Mr. Hatt, standing, “and indeed have made more inquiries than we can afford. Thank you for the company, 125, for I’m sure you are tired. But you tell a story nearly as well as you pull coaches, and I enjoyed the tale of your Mr. Aubrey very much.” 

125 thanked the chief engineer, feeling as happy as he had in ages, for the company had pleased him just as well, and probably better. 

He was even more fond of the engineer when a crew arrived and immediately got him a long drink of water, saying that Mr. Hatt had advised them to do so at once. 

***

Almost a week later, having not had to see the drunken relief-men once, he met up again with his usual crew early Monday as he took the predawn train. They were in odd spirits, and they looked at their engine askance.

“125!” said the driver, coming right out with the trouble. “Did you talk, then, that day with Mr. Hatt while we were sorting things out in the yard, and _ask_ him to send for you?” 

125 could see no good coming from this line of questioning. But one of the virtues Mr. Aubrey had instilled in him was honesty. 

“Yes, sir, I did. But only the once, sir,” he added, as a plea for mercy, “and he said I wouldn’t suit.” 

“Did he?” The driver seemed amused, despite himself. “Cagey fellow. Well, he might have, and I would have thought so myself, but you _were_ one of the engines he put in an inquiry for on pricing, that very day. So he must have been considering it, no matter what he told you. Strange business, this…” 

For one instant, 125 was delighted, inflamed with wild hope. 

In almost the same instant, he realized with horror that he had just that same week babbled away merrily to the chief engineer... _all about the very worst spot on his record_.

He wasn’t half mad with himself!

With their departure fast approaching, his driver had gotten busy checking that his axles were well-oiled for the journey home. 

To be perfectly honest, he also thought 125 deserved to be made to wait and stew for a bit. 

But after a while he could no longer bear his engine’s dismay, nor his own confused curiosity. “Come now. You can’t _really_ wish to go, can you?” 

“Oh, no, sir, I do indeed,” the engine said softly, breathless. “But I’ve spoilt any chance now.” 

“What? I don’t think he'd have blamed you for bringing in that train late the other night. He’s a sharp man, and he would have known why.” 

“Not that,” said 125 sadly. “I—well, sir, I told him a little story. He asked me to, sir,” he hastened to assure his driver that he had not taken liberties, “but if I had known he still had me in mind, I’m sure I shouldn’t have…” 

“I say, boy! How many stories have you managed to tell this man, without me knowing?” the driver demanded. He was too baffled now to hold back, and showed the engine a piece of paper. “He sent us a letter, you know, over our holiday; we just got it as we set out, and it inquires whether the two of us should be willing to accompany you. So the thing begins to sound quite serious, now. And indeed he mentions that you told him a story, and he calls you ‘a natural Sudrian,’ and says you’ll have to learn to manage yards and goods, and somehow learn it quickly, for his island has a better claim on you than we do. I think he may have forgotten for a moment everything about how the world really works…”

The engine was speechless, not daring to believe it. 

“Well, if you go, you’ll have to go without us,” the driver continued. “We’ve been well enough satisfied with you, but we’ll move to no other island for no motive at all. Do you really intend to?” 125’s stunned disbelief was a thin dam between sobriety and delight, and was all the answer necessary. The driver shook his head. “Well, then! If this don't beat all. I can’t see what it is you’re looking forward to, messing with a lot of bothersome noisy trucks on the slowest island in the world. But you’ve not been a bad sort of engine for us really, despite all the warnings we heard, and I do wish for you that it’s whatever you’re hoping it will be.” 

The fireman, finished checking the couplings, had re-joined them to hear this last bit. “If it is, and you’re kept on, we’ll have to visit sometime, and bring all the kidlets. Wouldn’t want to live there—it’s so pokey and remote from anything—but they do say it’s a beautiful place for a holiday.”

“Wh—What does that mean, sirs? ‘A natural Sudrian’?” 

The driver answered dryly, and indeed not altogether approvingly: “It means the sort of engine who tells stories without his driver knowing, and who asks for what it wants, and goes round making friends with strangers.” 

“And does all sorts of foolish things,” put in the fireman shrewdly, with a grin, “which then make for those good stories, you know.” 

Only the guard’s whistle, and long practice that made obedience to it automatic, brought 125 back to earth. 

It was funny, how the prospect of soon leaving beautified the dingy station and dim surrounding fields. 125 was tremendously fond of everything he saw, as he pulled his train out of the station. 

He was soon to forget those sights. Engines don’t tend to hold fast to the memory of places and faces. It isn’t useful. Perhaps 125 would never have asked to leave, if he’d known this. 

_“Off this line, off this line! Off this line, off this line!”_

Then again, perhaps he would have. 

They had been held up at the junction for thirty-three minutes. In the east, there was a glimmer of sunshine peeking from behind the great hills; morning was already upon them. 125 passed one of his brothers, and they exchanged whistles. But the brother didn’t know the rhyme or reason behind 125’s little song, that morning. 

It seemed to him, though, a somewhat disquieting show of excitement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any technical detail is here for… impressionistic verisimilitude. Don’t take it for historical gospel. 
> 
> As far as fanon, we did not include certain relevant material from Rev. Awdry’s _The Island of Sodor: Its People_ , etc. for a simple reason: we were already off to the races planning this fic before we read it. 
> 
> That means that we contradicted Awdry's (very noncommittal) “guess” that Edward is a 1896 Larger Seagull, as F.R. Nos. 124 and 125 were manufactured a little later, in 1900. The good reverend is here engaged in one of the most delightfully vague Shrugs of God *ever*, so we don’t feel bad about continuing to hold to the headcanon that Edward got to spend some time as the baby of the family before spending a damn century as the elder of the N.W.R. 
> 
> More conspicuously, that means this fic doesn’t address Edward’s shy steaming and apparent worthlessness on his original railway. 
> 
> Narrator: But that’s another story. 
> 
> (A story actually set on Sodor… An absurdly ambitious story with way too many OCs…. A story where 124 gets a much bigger role and heyyyyyo he’s much more complex than he comes off during his cameos in this one. Watch this space!) 
> 
> Speaking of [OCs](https://mean-scarlet-deceiver.tumblr.com/post/624988805235081216/so-yeah-were-we-talking-about-engines-given-up-on?is_related_post=1#notes), some of you may have spotted [Stack](https://mean-scarlet-deceiver.tumblr.com/post/629009745327603713/is-it-stack-er-day-yet), cameoing in this chapter as No. 12. (@galinneall-dearg totally called it.)


End file.
